Mice and Men
by Fiddler55
Summary: Reacting to Mark's suddenly full schedule, Steve volunteers to escort a prisoner to San Francisco, with perilous consequences.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are once again the product of my own undisciplined imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally unintentional. Reference to the wonderful Tony Bennett, however, is intentional, as I can't imagine Mark not being impressed by Steve's ability to secure tickets for one of his concerts. My thanks also to Krys of DMAS for asking for a virtual season episode along these lines and giving me an excuse toindulge myself by writingthis story!

"The best laid plans o' mice and men/Gang aft a-gley

And leave us naught but grief and pain/For promised joy."

Robert Burns, "To a Mouse"

From far away, he could hear rain; not a torrential storm, nor a mild drizzle, but dreary, unpleasantly regular, tedious dripping, just hard and cold enough to soak and chill the skin to the bone for any unfortunate caught in it. The steady splattering finally forced him to rouse and take notice, and he gazed about in consternation at the wreckage around him. There was a suspicious wetness trickling down his forehead. As he reached to investigate, he started as the hand of the unconscious passenger next to him came along.

He stopped, puzzled, contemplating the handcuffs connecting his right wrist to that of his neighbor and pondering the reason for their existence. Who was this guy, and what was he doing there, he wondered, struggling to make some small degree of sense of his surroundings; but he was still too weak, and they faded away from him even as he strained to remain awake and aware.


	2. Storm Clouds

"Dad, guess what I've got!" Steve Sloan crowed as he arrived home.

Mark Sloan glanced up over his glasses, laptop open on the table before him, papers with lesson plans scattered along the wood surface. "Hi, son. What's up?"

Steve walked over to his father and ceremoniously placed two rectangular pieces of cardboard on the keyboard. "Friday night. Front row center. Your favorite."

"Wow," his father breathed, impressed. "Tony Bennett. At the Bowl. How did you manage that?"

Steve grinned. "Oh, nothing too difficult -- just being in the right place at the right time -- with the right person who owed me just the right favor." He pulled out a chair and settled comfortably, obviously pleased with the effect of his surprise. "I thought maybe some barbecue before the concert -- what is it, Dad?"

Mark had an odd expression on his face, as if he was recalling a vaguely unpleasant memory. "Ummm -- that's the 25th, right?"

"Ye-es," Steve answered slowly, an unwelcome suspicion taking shape in his mind. His father's look acquired a faint tinge of sheepishness, and he groaned. "Don't tell me. I've succeeded yet again in selecting a night you're already tied up."

Mark sighed. "I'm sorry, son. But I'm already committed to the Helping Hands Center that night, and I'm doing a presentation on the importance of establishing a relationship with a doctor before visits to the emergency room become necessary, and Angela's expecting a lengthy question and answer period afterwards --" His voice trailed off; Steve's face had taken on that frozen look his father had seen all too often lately, and his heart sank. "Son -- I'm sorry. Can I have a --"

"A rain check?" Steve interrupted, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "I'm already waiting for a monsoon."

His father's head jerked up in shock at the cynicism Steve hadn't bothered to hide. "Son -- I said I was sorry. I'm sorry you're out the cash, or whatever you did to get them, for the tickets. I promise --"

Steve turned away. "Promise what? That next time you won't forget we've had almost this identical conversation how many times over?"

Nettled, Mark snapped, "That gives you an excuse to throw a temper tantrum like a five-year-old?"

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it and started to shrug on his jacket. But his father's expression bit deep, and he turned back. "Dad -- for the last three months you've done everything you can possibly think of to exhaust yourself, for reasons I don't understand. You've lengthened your hours at the hospital, you're teaching extra classes, you've doubled up on your charity work -- and I've hardly seen you. God knows I should probably appreciate the irony, considering there were plenty of times when the shoe was on the other foot. But you're not twenty years old anymore, and I worry about you -- and every attempt I make to find things for us to do, games, theater, movies -- if I didn't know better, I'd start to develop a complex that you don't want to spend any time together."

Temporarily distracted by the lengthy speech from his normally taciturn offspring, Mark forced himself to focus. "If you know better, then you shouldn't be having a problem, and you certainly shouldn't be fussing so much."

So much for trying to reason with the old man, Steve thought with sudden renewed irritation. He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. It didn't help; the choking feeling of helpless resentment refused to fade. "Dad -- I still don't understand. But obviously you're not going to share your reasons with me. You just -- well, until you deign to enlighten me, this is the last time."

The telephone rang, and he snatched it up. "Sloan here. What? Yes, as a matter of fact, I can." He glanced over at his father, who studiously attempted to look as if he hadn't been paying attention. "Yeah. My schedule just freed up. Fine." He spoke for another minute, then hung up. "I have to go, Dad."

The argument lay between them like a concrete weight. Mark watched his tall son move towards the door and felt a sudden trickle of dread at his words. What did he mean, the last time? "Son --"

Steve hesitated, then turned, waiting, not quite trusting himself to speak.

Mark tried to keep his tone light. "Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?"

Relief at the revival of their long-standing joke mixed uncomfortably with residual resentment, but finally won out; he had never been able to stay angry at his father for very long. "No, Dad. I'm going to pack a bag, then I'm off to the station. Captain Newman wants me to escort a prisoner to San Francisco to testify at his former employer's trial, then bring him back." He sighed. "Talk about irony. Instead of listening to Tony sing about it, I get to go there."

The hall clock chimed, and Steve automatically checked his watch. "I need to get moving. I'll see you Saturday night, Dad."

The fear was still clutching the back of his neck, unimpressed by Steve's nonchalance. "Be careful, son," Mark called, hoping his anxiety was unfounded. "Be careful."


	3. Plane Crash

Rain was still halfheartedly speckling the windows of the Cessna, which sprawled uncomfortably in the lower reaches of a scrubby mountain range, one wing distorted beyond repair and the other wrenched off altogether. Steve Sloan lifted an eyelid, started automatically to stretch, and groaned as pain stabbed through his right leg. What limited inspection he could perform, given the impediment of his neighbor's shackled wrist, indicated that his right thigh was well and thoroughly lacerated. Tentatively, he moved his leg sideways, hoping he would feel the effect of any remnants of whatever had done the damage. There was no corresponding spike of pain, and he found himself hoping that was a good sign. A glance at the man next to him showed that he was still unconscious, with some facial lacerations, but there didn't seem to be any substantial injury.

Steve sighed. He should have realized that the looming disaster which commenced with the doomed plan to see Tony Bennett had not resolved, that more trouble lay in store for him. A simple plan to remove Luke Brewer from jail and transport him to San Francisco, so the ex-petty thief turned accountant could testify against his much more important former boss. And here they were, stuck somewhere in the Diablos by the look of it, with a crippled, no, a defunct plane, and a pilot who was either dead or severely injured.

Which reminded him. Even though he was fairly certain he hadn't seen any evidence of life in the cockpit, he needed to make sure that the man wasn't lying there bleeding to death. Unthinkingly, he started to move, and swore at the reminder of his original assignment. With a sigh, he fished awkwardly in his pocket, trying not to jar his wounded leg any more than necessary, and retrieved his keys. After a moment, his wrist was free, Brewer was attached to the arm of the seat, and Steve was standing, with difficulty, in the aisle, balancing carefully, unsure exactly where the plane had landed in its unplanned descent. A quick inspection of the cockpit reinforced his impression of the pilot's chance of survival; Mattingly would not be needing any assistance from any earthly power. Nor did it look like the plane was going to be salvageable, as the instruments were smashed beyond repair, probably due to the nose having crushed its way backwards into the cockpit like a battered accordion. A quick glance showed that the radio had suffered a similar fate; from bad to worse, Steve thought grumpily, and stiffened as the faint but definite smell of overheated oil seeped into his nose. Time to get the hell out of there, with whatever might be useful, before the damn thing ignited.

The supplies in the small storage area were meager. Some containers of bottled water (Steve sent upwards a silent appreciative prayer to the gods of the California lifestyle); some trail mix (here he was less thankful for the pilot's dietary habits), and various types of dried fruit. He bundled the less than appealing supplies into a makeshift backpack, then returned with understandable reluctance to the cabin, where the other passenger snored still, even as Steve unhooked him from the armrest and secured the convict's wrists together.

"Brewer! Come on, wake up! We've got to get out of here!" These exhortations were punctuated by grabbing the unconscious man's shoulders and shaking him hard. Steve could hear the slight tinge of fear in his own voice as the hot, oily smell intensified, and shoved it back with an effort. "Come on -- the plane's going to explode."

His prisoner stirred, and blinked at him with blurry eyes. "What -- what happened?" he asked, understandably confused.

Steve was not inclined to be patient, however. With a profane comment, he flung the pack over his shoulder and wrenched the other man out of the seat, literally hauling him towards the door, which luckily already hung open. "I don't know how much time we have. Come on." In his anxiety, he missed the sudden narrowing of Brewer's eyes as he took in the scene and the wreckage of Steve's pant leg, concentrating instead on shoving the convict out over a luckily short drop, then negotiating it himself, trying not to wince as his bad leg hit earth with a little more force than he had hoped.

The smell of burning oil was much stronger on the ground, and both men stared in fascination at the spreading puddle, rapidly becoming a pool, underneath the shattered fuselage. Then a tell-tale hissing started, and Steve jumped. "Run!" he ordered hoarsely, and they started off at a stumbling, shambling pace, trying to put as much distance between them and the doomed plane as possible. The noise grew louder, and Steve knew with a cold certainty that they weren't going to get as far away as he would have preferred.

The explosion, when it came, was substantial, knocking them off their feet and propelling them upward and forward. As he became temporarily airborne, Steve found himself wondering curiously how such a small plane could produce such a large blast; then he was slammed hard earthwards. Dazed, his body skidding along over a myriad of small rocks and scrub which tore at his skin, he was unable to stop himself before a large stump did it for him, hard enough to knock him briefly out of time.

Something or someone was rooting around in his pockets, first the back, then a hand snaking around to feel in his right front pocket. He started to object, only to feel the heavy weight on his back which he had assumed was the world which had fallen in on him shift with agonizing pressure to the back of his right leg. Something metallic touched the back of his neck, and then he heard the voice.

"Try anything, and I'll blow a hole in your head."

Steve stiffened, then moaned as the weight pressed down on his leg again. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Brewer?"

The convict snickered. "First I'm going to get the keys to these handcuffs. Then -- depending on how much trouble you try to give me, I'll either leave you here -- or shoot you." The gun dug into Steve's neck a little harder. "Pull out your keys, real slow, and toss them to your right."

Steve hesitated, and the gun pushed in again in dreadful synchronization with the sudden pressure on his wounded leg. His options were at best extremely limited; growling, he retrieved the keys and followed the other man's instructions, and groaned with relief as the weight suddenly lifted.

"Enjoy it while you can, Sloan." Brewer swiftly picked up the keys and unlocked the handcuffs while somehow balancing the gun enough to have a good chance of hitting Steve if it fired. "Your turn." He returned and stared down at the wounded man. "Stay on your stomach and put your hands behind you."

His gorge rose. Bad enough dealing with the handcuffs for prisoner escort; but the last thing he wanted Brewer to see was his pathological aversion to the damn things. "No."

Brewer's eyebrows rose. "Sloan, I'm the one holding the gun."

"That's right," Steve retorted. "Luke Brewer, petty criminal, not exactly a master killer. You didn't even own one when you were arrested."

The brows came down. "And your point?"

Steve shook his head. "You're not a killer, Brewer. Dixon is. You're looking at getting out in less than five after you testify against him as it is. Why would you want to make it worse?" He noticed the other man's involuntary glance at the surrounding desolation and interpreted it correctly. "You may think you have a chance to get away, but you can't run as far, or as long, as you think. It may take a little while because of the weather, but I can assure you San Francisco already knows we've gone down. It's just a matter of time before we're found."

Brewer absorbed the unwelcome information. "I take it you think I should just hang around here and wait?" he asked, with some sarcasm.

Steve shrugged. "Here if you want. Personally, given the looks of the sky, I'd want to find some kind of shelter. They're still going to find us."

"And I suppose you expect me to haul you along?" The tone was unchanged.

Steve shrugged again. "They track you down by yourself, you've got a good chance of stopping a bullet. If I'm with you, I can intercede. At this point, you haven't really done anything -- yet." Okay, he thought, assault on a police officer, but I'm willing to overlook that for now.

Brewer obviously was thinking the same thing. He flicked a glance towards the handcuffs, then down at the gun in his hand, then returned his gaze to Steve, who reciprocated as guilelessly as he was capable, waiting with barely controlled patience. "All right," the convict said finally. "You go with me. But the handcuffs stay."

Trying to conceal his desperation, Steve pointed out mildly, "I've got a great big hole in my leg, Brewer. Walking's going to be difficult enough; I can't compensate if I'm off balance with my hands behind me." He held his breath, hoping that Brewer would simply let him limp along unrestrained, which he suspected was already going to be problematic.

No such luck. Brewer's face hardened, and he shook his head. "I'm not taking a chance on you jumping me, leg or no leg. Cuff 'em in front of you, and I catch you trying for me, I'll shoot, whether you think I'm a killer or not."

He'd have to settle for this small victory, although his stomach still twisted sickeningly as the metal clinked shut. Then he yanked at his shirttail until it gave enough for him to tear a long strip, and reached clumsily for the pack.

"What are you doing?" Brewer demanded suspiciously, starting to move forward to stop him.

Steve gave him a weary look. "I need to do something about this -- and you might want to do something about those lacerations on your face. There should be enough water for us to see to our wounds and still have plenty for drinking."

Brewer stood irresolute, then apparently decided to take Steve's word for it. "All right. But then we get moving." He squatted down and, after following Steve's example, began to wipe away the blood and grime, his eyes sliding over to the other man periodically.

Who was not enjoying himself very much at all. The gash was long, wide and deep, and it hurt like blazes; if he were at CGH, Jesse would have promptly socked him full of some kind of joy juice and he would have awakened with a leg full of stitches. He wondered idly what had hit him, and decided the effort of speculation not only was unproductive but made his head hurt. Slowly, painfully, he cleaned the mess as best as he could, made a pad of part of his shirt remnant and wadded it against the wound, then wrapped the remaining strip around his leg to anchor it. How effective his makeshift work was going to be, he had no idea; he found himself wishing pointlessly that he'd had the presence of mind to retrieve the first aid kit from the plane. No good obsessing over what was done, he thought grimly, and began the agonizing process of trying to pull himself to his feet.

After what felt like hours, a hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him upward. "Don't expect this all the time," Luke Brewer said brusquely. "Which way?"

One look at the other's grimly determined expression was enough. Steve glanced around at the rocky chaparral and scrub on their hillside, and the grey-blue mountains farther off, noting with disgust that the rain was starting again. "Down," he said laconically, then amended his response. "And west. Toward those hills; if we're where I think we are, we've got a good chance of finding a town once we cross this ridge and the next." Without waiting to see if his unwelcome traveling companion followed, he limped off, gritting his teeth against the pain and the intensifying rain.

They had stopped briefly to rest after the fourth consecutive time Steve had stumbled, the last time losing his balance altogether and crashing to the ground. Brewer uncapped one of the bottles, took a swig, and passed it down to the other man where he sat, injured leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. Steve scowled at the bottle, then drank anyway. No point in being a hero just yet, he thought, with miles between them and any type of civilization, and forced himself to say it.

"Thanks."

Brewer retrieved the bottle and subsided to the ground himself, secretly glad of the opportunity to stop, as he was still feeling dazed from the crash. "D'you have any idea where we are, Sloan?"

Steve considered. "I think the north Diablos, could be anywhere along that range. I know we had to divert east because of the weather -- Mattingly said something about going around to the northeast, approaching San Francisco from that direction to avoid the thunderheads." He glanced up in irritation as raindrops started once more to dribble down from overhead. "Somehow I don't think he got as far as I would have liked."

Brewer sighed and unfolded himself. "So we go -- ?"

"West and down still. We need to find a water source before we run out," Steve said tiredly. Reluctantly but patiently enduring Brewer's help, he got slowly to his feet, forcibly ignoring the protestations from his bad leg. "We've also got a better chance of finding some shelter in a lower-lying area."

"Shelter?" Brewer asked involuntarily.

Steve laughed, a short, ugly sound. "No one's likely to find us in this stuff. And, from the look of the scenery, we're talking at least another day or two before we happen on any kind of sign of other people. Maybe you don't mind camping out on the hillside with the stars bright above you, but that really doesn't appeal to me in weather like this."

Brewer started to retort, then stopped. Sloan's face was gray and drawn, trickles of sweat evidence of the difficulty he had had rising, even with Brewer's assistance. Somehow the gun and the handcuffs didn't seem like enough protection if he riled the lieutenant enough; Sloan had the look of a man concentrating fiercely on one thing and one thing only, and who would not appreciate being distracted from it. And he certainly didn't want to find himself carrying the wounded man if his strength gave out. "Yeah, all right," he said grudgingly. "Makes sense." He swung the pack over his shoulder and motioned Steve along with the gun. "Let's go."


	4. Trek at Gunpoint

After another couple of hours, which Steve, nearing exhaustion, would have bet his badge had lasted actually three times as long, they crested a stumpy ridge and found themselves gazing at a narrow stream winding its unconcerned way ahead of them. Small woods marched almost all the way down to the bank on the opposite side and stretched out leafy branches invitingly. The wanderers stopped, contemplating the scene; then Steve spoke.

"Looks like that's our best bet for the night."

Brewer glanced at his unwilling companion, then back across the water. "It's only four. We've got another hour or so of daylight."

Steve grimaced. "Maybe. But these streams don't tend to run too close together in these hills. We may not find another one before dark." He glanced up at the still uncooperative sky. "And the rain's only going to get worse."

For some reason, Brewer had to try to make an issue of it. "So what are you afraid of? Wild animals?"

The other man made a disgusted sound, and started off towards the copse. "As a matter of fact, this is a favorite stomping ground for several kinds of mountain cats. If one of them jumps you, you'd better be ready to fire that gun and fast."

Brewer stared at him, unsure if the lieutenant was joking. Somehow, the cold blue eyes didn't look particularly humorous, and he shivered suddenly. No point in looking for unnecessary trouble, he thought, and shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "All right. But then we're on our way at first light."

Steve muttered something derogatory under his breath about survivalist dilettante wannabes, and kept moving, half afraid if he stopped before he got across the water, he'd fall down and not be able to find his feet again. Once safely in the shelter of the trees, he gratefully let go of the grim determination which had fueled the last hour or so and sank to the ground, wincing despite himself at the relief of taking his weight off of his injured leg. He closed his eyes, barely noticing when Brewer started rooting through the supplies, until a profane exclamation disturbed his reverie.

"What's your problem now, Brewer?" Steve inquired, not especially politely, then laughed as he saw what the other man was holding.

"I gather the pilot was into health food," Brewer said with disgust. The expression on his face matched the tone of his voice as he held up one of the trail mix packages.

Steve had to agree. Right now, a Snickers bar would have been a lot more appealing, and the chocolate would certainly have made him feel better. And along those lines -- he sat up reluctantly and started to unwind the wrappings on his leg.

The movement attracted the other man's attention. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, hastily moving in Steve's direction.

Steve gave him a remote glance. He didn't have the energy to worry about whatever was making Brewer tick at the moment, nor was he inclined to discuss his condition at any length. "Hand me one of the bottles, would you?"

Brewer complied, watching silently as Steve worked on removing the bandages, his hands moving more and more slowly as the pain intensified. "Here, let me take care of that, you'll never get it off at this rate." That got him a startled look from the wounded man, which he ignored.

"Why should you care?" Steve asked, his voice slurring slightly, as he continued trying to deal with the recalcitrant bandages.

Brewer shrugged. "I'm just a penny-ante thief, remember? I don't need a murder or manslaughter charge hanging over my head. So if you think I'm going to let you die of exposure or gangrene or something like that out here, you're crazy."

He would have laughed, but his leg was starting to really hurt, and his weariness was adding to the weakness; it was too much trouble to even try to smile. Steve barely resisted as Brewer gently pushed him back, forcing the cuffed wrists out of the way, and took over the unpleasant job. A few minutes later, he had succeeded in uncovering the wound, which looked even uglier than it had earlier. The edges were red and puffy, still oozing blood; Brewer pressed down lightly in one discolored spot and caught his breath as the injured man's hand closed on his wrist with unexpected speed and force.

"What the hell are you doing?" Steve gritted.

The convict swallowed, then turned his attention to prying the locked fingers loose. "Breaking my wrist is not a viable option at this point," he pointed out through clenched teeth.

Steve seemed to surface for a moment. "Oh. Sorry." The blurred eyes focused, then dilated again. "What were you doing?" he repeated.

Brewer tried his examination again, more carefully, trying not to precipitate a similar reaction. "You've got some infection going on here," he said finally. "There are some areas of pus, which I think I can clean out if you'll let me."

Steve stared at him, blue eyes once more intense. "Meaning how?"

Brewer took a deep breath. "You're probably not going to like it."

Steve waited patiently, a small crease beginning between his eyebrows, and Brewer added reluctantly, "I can make a compress, draw some of the pus out that way."

There was a short and potent silence. Then Steve said slowly, "You mean by pushing on it."

No point in mincing words. "Yes."

Steve started to object, then recognized the futility of maintaining any such opposition. Even if he was able to prevent Brewer from manhandling his leg right now, he wasn't likely to be able to stay awake much longer. And Brewer had already declared his intention of ensuring Steve's survival, more or less in one piece. He sighed, and closed his eyes. "Just do it and get it over with."

It wasn't pretty. Brewer was sweating massively and wishing ardently that the pilot had been an alcoholic instead of a vegan, and Steve was out cold, having lost consciousness about halfway through the process. He had managed to maintain a fragile control until then, but Brewer's explorations had found a particularly nasty spot, and the fire which had streaked up Steve's leg at that point was several times more vicious than the earlier pangs; it had wrenched an involuntary exclamation from him, his body convulsing, despite his best intentions. White-knuckled hands had reflexively reached for the injury, getting in the way, and Brewer, blinking away drops of sweat as he recovered from his own shocked reaction, had been forced to stop what he was doing and hold the other man down until Steve finally lapsed into unconsciousness.

The unpleasant chore finished, Brewer rose stiffly and staggered over to the stream to rinse his hands, then his face, trying to rid himself of the metallic smell of Sloan's blood and the muskiness of his own perspiration. He dumped the remaining contents of his water bottle down his throat, regretting it contained nothing stronger, then refilled the container from the stream. Munching morosely on some of the dried fruit, he settled down against one of the trees, with the vague notion of keeping watch.

Brewer's eyes snapped open suddenly as he woke. The sky was definitely light, and his stomach growled. Alarmed, he glanced around, and saw that Steve had barely moved during the night; his hand involuntarily sought the handcuff keys in his pocket, but it looked like the other man was still secured as before. Nevertheless, he rose silently and circled around until he could get a clear look, then tugged cautiously at Steve's arm.

The sleeping man muttered something which sounded vaguely critical, if not insulting, and tried to turn over, then woke with a jerk, the movement bringing his weight down on his bad leg. Brewer scooted hastily away, barely escaping being kicked in the knee as Steve's body contorted into a massive paroxysm of pain. From that secure distance, he waited until the other man had regained some tenuous control of himself, muttered curses making themselves heard.

Finally, Steve seemed to have achieved some degree of calm, and he raised his head. "Help me up."

Brewer stared at him, shocked. "What?"

"Help me up," Steve repeated, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "If I don't get up now, I'm not going to be able to."

His expression doubtful, Brewer wordlessly returned and proffered an arm, trying not to wince as it took Steve's entire weight briefly. Still without comment, he guided the other man over to the icy-cold stream and helped him clean up as best as he could, then persuaded him to eat some fruit. Steve choked the unappetizing fare down more or less obediently, trying not to gulp water to wash it down, until he finally shook his head at any more.

Brewer sighed and put the rest of the fruit in the impromptu backpack. "Which way, keemo sabe?"

He had to ask twice more before Steve's eyes focused on him reluctantly; they had been fixed on some far point off to the left. Slowly, Steve glanced around, then nodded, presumably to himself. "That way," he said shortly, pointing off to the west, and started to stumble off.

After a short interval, it became blindingly obvious to both men that whatever energy had been driving Steve onwards the previous day had more or less abandoned him. His pace slackened, footsteps growing ever more uneven, and he had already barely caught himself from falling several times. Brewer started to examine the scrubby small pines as they walked, with vague notions of locating and adapting a suitable branch as a crutch or cane. However, none seemed to have quite the length or solidity which was needed until they finally stumbled around a bend in the stream and found a more heavily wooded area.

Brewer put out a hand to stop Steve and eased him down to the ground. "Time to rest. I'm going to see if I can find a halfway decent branch over there." Although he would not have tolerated an argument from the other, he was disconcerted to be allowed to keep to his plan without objection or interference. Sloan's color was bad and his eyes dull, his breathing uneven; Brewer once more wished there was something stronger in his water bottle. He was going to need it to get them out of there, he thought ruefully.

For the first time in this disaster-laden trip, luck was on their side. Brewer found a long, fat, solid limb reasonably quickly, and returned with haste. "Here, Sloan. You can use this as a cane."

He didn't want to get up. His leg had progressed from radiating misery to blessed numbness, and putting his weight back on it was going to bring the pain back. Steve shook his head mulishly, mumbling something to that effect.

Brewer was unmoved. The injured man's color had gone from bad to worse, and, while he was not about to admit it, he was starting to experience the odd twinge of fear that Sloan might not be able to help him once they were found. This panic made him reckless; with no concern for the other man's protests, he hauled Steve upright, wrapped his hands around the branch, and grabbed an arm. "Come on." Without waiting to see if Steve was moving, he started off, more or less forcing his reluctant companion to stumble along next to him.

Steve tolerated this mistreatment for about a half hour, but then he seemed to come to himself. Resentment edged out discomfort briefly, and he wrenched away from Brewer with a scowl. "Do that again, Brewer, and I'll see they double your sentence."

The convict stopped, his hand seeking the reassurance of Steve's gun of its own accord. "I can still waste you and take my chances, Sloan."

Steve's response as he turned away was inarticulate, but the general sense of scorn was clear. Brewer's other fist clenched, and he released his grip on the gun with an effort. "You're going to push me too far, Sloan."

Steve ignored him, concentrating on the herculean task of putting one foot in front of the other, with or without the improvised walking stick. His skin felt hot and dry, his throat like sand, and he was certain that he needed appropriate medical attention, and fairly soon at that. Mercifully, his leg had opted for a sort of throbbing, which, while it alarmed him in its dullness, was a relief after the fiery stabbing he had experienced earlier. Maybe he'd be able to cover some distance after all, if it didn't get any worse, he thought hopefully.

Hope wasn't listening. A bit of uneven ground, ground mud-slick after the recent rains, his uncertain footing, and the sturdy branch couldn't begin to compensate. Steve overbalanced, and toppled, only to find himself on a declining slope as the stream took a downward turn. Unable to stop himself, he hit hard and rolled, each protrusion yanking a groan from him as his abused body absorbed each shock. Then a sharper drop flung him down even harder; he cried out as he landed, the sudden shock driving the breath from his lungs and his wits from him altogether.

An appalled Brewer scrambled in his wake, negotiating the gradient as quickly as he dared. He fetched up at Steve's sprawled body, and rolled him over carefully. There was a large bruise on the side of Steve's face and his breathing was ragged; tentative efforts to wake him were unproductive. After water failed to revive the unconscious man, Brewer sat back on his heels and tried to subdue his own anxiety. The question of how long Steve might survive without competent medical treatment was rapidly becoming critical. It was also clear that the injured man had gone as far as he was going to go without that help. Frantically, Brewer glanced around, wishing for once something in his less than stellar career would turn out properly.

Nothing to the west, or to the north. They had tumbled over the drop from the east, so Brewer turned his head in the last possible direction, and caught his breath with a start. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, there seemed to be a dirt road heading off to the south. He jumped to his feet, energized, to find what were clearly recent tire tracks, most likely a tractor by the looks of the tread. And it was highly unlikely that anyone would be driving any great distance on a tractor, so clearly someone lived somewhere reasonably close.

He was debating his options, wondering whether to walk in that direction, to find help, or simply to go that way and pretend he was the sole survivor of a plane crash, when the decision was taken out of his hands as the sound of an engine disturbed his thought process. Brewer looked up to see a tractor heading towards them, then glanced back down at the unconscious lieutenant, noticing absently that the handcuffs had chafed against the skin of one wrist. Sorry, Sloan, he thought with some irony, you're going to have to be my prisoner, or I'm a dead man.

The tractor drew up, and a man leaned out. "Morning. You two in some kind of trouble?"

Luke Brewer nodded and pulled out Steve's badge. "Steve Sloan, LAPD. I've got a prisoner here I was taking to San Francisco when our plane crashed, and he was hurt. We could use some help."

The newcomer's eyes narrowed as he took in the situation, and he nodded. "All right." He stopped the engine and climbed out. "Good thing I had the trailer hitched up; we'll have to put him in there." He stuck out a hand. "Grant Ryan. We've got a place up the road a ways."


	5. Meanwhile, Back in the City

In a large, luxurious office in the middle of San Francisco, a well-groomed, well-dressed man absent-mindedly rubbed a well-manicured finger across an unfortunately jowly chin as he frowned at a computer printout. A younger man removed a cell phone from his ear and approached him quickly.

"Boss -- Jason's on the phone from L.A."

Mervyn Dixon glanced up, irritation at the interruption briefly creasing his brow and vanishing as quickly at the expression on his assistant's face. He nodded and took the phone.

"This had better be good."

The far caller's voice was quick and anxious. "Brewer's plane went down. Somewhere south of there; my contact at LAPD seems to think in the northern Diablos. Search parties are already on their way."

The frown reappeared and deepened. Dixon asked a few more questions, then disconnected and looked up at the waiting aide. "Send out a team. Brewer's going to have to miss his moment in the limelight. Permanently."

The other man looked at him inquiringly, but waited without comment. Dixon contemplated him coldly for a moment.

"Problem?"

A hasty headshake. "No, sir. What about his escort – assuming there are survivors?"

Mervyn Dixon grunted and picked up the printout again. "Make sure there aren't any."

The ringing of the phone distracting him from the drudgery of administrative reports, Mark picked up the receiver with only a slight twinge of guilt at his relief at the interruption.

"Mark Sloan."

Captain Newman's voice crackled through the wires. "Dr. Sloan, Jim Newman here."

A cold finger of dread slid across the back of Mark's neck, and he shivered. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

The other man sounded grim. "I'm afraid we've lost contact with Steve's plane. They were last heard from several hours ago, when the pilot notified San Francisco he was going to divert northeast in order to get around some bad weather."

Mark sat still for a moment, grappling with the paralysis which was clutching his throat. Finally, he managed to cough and break the stranglehold. "Should I --?"

"No." Newman must have belatedly recognized the curtness of his response, for he added, somewhat carefully, "No, Mark, at this point I don't think there's anything you can really contribute. SFPD, the sheriff's offices of several counties, the FAA, the FBI, they've all got teams heading up that way. We'll keep you posted, of course."

Something didn't ring quite right; Newman sounded much too conciliatory. "There's something you're not telling me, Jim."

A pause, and then a deep sigh. "You know, doc, you're too damn perceptive for your own good. One of these days, that's going to get you in trouble."

Mark forced a chuckle at the reference, then returned to his inquiry. "Who was he escorting, and why?"

"A fellow named Luke Brewer. Small-time thief, but bigger time numbers man. He was supposed to testify against his former employer."

"Who was?"

Another sigh. "Mervyn Dixon."

The cold finger became an entire hand. Dixon's reputation had spread southwards from San Francisco like a cold virus, and the viciousness with which he had conducted his criminal activities was well-known even in Los Angeles. Mark swallowed, accepted Newman's assurances that he would be kept up to date, and hung up, to sag back in his chair, Steve's ominous "last time" circling endlessly through his brain.

"Mark? That's the third time you've wandered off in the middle of a sentence," Amanda pointed out gently, gazing at her friend and mentor with considerable concern. They were supposed to be discussing the budget for the children's ward, and his contribution thus far had been erratic to say the least. She glanced at Jesse and jerked her chin towards Mark slightly, but the younger doctor looked as baffled as she felt. After a few minutes of continued vague commentary, she put her foot down.

"Mark, what's wrong? You're not paying the least bit of attention."

He started, mind miles away, and reddened as he became aware of two sets of eyes staring at him with considerable suspicion. "What? -- Oh, nothing, Amanda, everything's fine. Not to worry."

The two other doctors exchanged glances, then Jesse said guilelessly, "So you're okay with us taking the extra funds from the kitchen budget and putting them into the benefit."

This did get his attention. "Jesse, what are you talking about?" The only response to this question was a knowing smirk, and Mark realized that keeping the truth from them was pointless. And, he reflected, unfair; after all, they were both close to Steve, and would likely not appreciate being kept in the dark. He sighed, and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

"Steve's plane is missing. And, assuming they survived, they're quite possibly being hunted by his prisoner's boss."

Shocked exclamations followed; then Amanda said, "But surely Jim Newman's got people searching as well."

Mark nodded tiredly. "Yes. And SFPD. And the FBI --"

"FBI?" Jesse asked in surprise. "Why are they involved?"

He didn't want to discuss this at length; thinking about the nature of the hunter frightened him too much and reminded him grimly of Steve's comment the day before. "The man Steve was escorting was supposed to testify in San Francisco tomorrow."

"Wow," Jesse commented. "The Dixon trial?"

Amanda watched her dearest friend nod slowly. "Mark," she asked gently but with some asperity, "why have you been carrying this around since yesterday all by yourself?"

Mark made an indefinable gesture, refusing to meet her eyes. "I -- I didn't -- I don't know," he confessed. "I guess because then I would have to admit it was real." He looked up finally, and her heart twisted at the unmistakable fear in his eyes. "Dixon is a savage -- far worse than anyone I ever faced. And here's his chance to eradicate the worst threat to him." He met their blank looks squarely. "Steve's prisoner is the government's key witness. Without him, Dixon's got a good chance of walking away a free man."

Jesse stared at him, puzzled. "No offense, Mark, but why are you here instead of up -- well, wherever it is they're searching?"

Mark sighed. "Jim Newman's advice notwithstanding, I'm rather wondering that myself." He sat silent for a moment, playing aimlessly with his pen, then straightened his shoulders. "Actually, you're right, Jesse. Maybe that's been why I've been feeling so miserable about this." He stood up as the others stared at him, and grinned at them. "I'm going up there. Dixon wants my boy, he's going to have to deal with me first!"

Captain Newman looked up, startled, at the newcomer's sudden entrance. "Mark!" he exclaimed, not without some irritation. "I thought you were going to stay by a phone and --"

Mark slid into the visitor's chair and shook his head. "Nope," he said firmly. "Sorry, Jim, my son's out there with a target on his back. I'm going with one of the search parties, I don't care which, but I'm going."

Newman eyed him with a certain unease, aware of Mark's predilection for trouble; not exactly what he or Steve necessarily needed in greater quantity. But the determination on the doctor's face was clear, and it looked like any argument was going to be worthless. "I can't dissuade you, can I."

Mark shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I thought I'd go with you."

That earned him a sharp look from the shocked captain. Then Newman's face relaxed, and he let out a bark of laughter. "I'm not even going to try to figure out how you knew I was going, and assumed I'd allow you to accompany me. Now I know how your son feels." He stood up, rotating one shoulder to loosen sudden stiffness, probably from his head whipping around in surprise at Mark's statement. "All right, Mark. You can come along. Right now. But I'm warning you, if you don't do as you're told, I'm going to rat on you to your son."

Mark shuddered theatrically. "Please. I'm already in trouble for turning him down for Tony Bennett on Friday night." Heading out the door, he missed the sudden narrowing of eyes and intake of breath at the revelation; Newman had wondered, but had kept his own counsel, at Steve's sudden willingness for such an ordinarily distasteful assignment. This obviously wasn't the time, though; he merely nodded, and the two men hurried out towards the waiting helicopter.

Across town, in an office considerably larger and more comfortably furnished than Newman's, Mervyn Dixon nodded in satisfaction as he received his aide's report.

"They found what was left of the wreckage, and our men picked up tracks heading off to the west. Two sets, one of them is limping badly, don't know which one. Lately they've veered south some, apparently following one of the small rivers that run through that part of the Diablos, looks like they may be making for Pinnacles or somewhere along the San Benito."

Dixon nodded again, his smile unpleasant. "Make sure enough men are heading that way. I don't want anyone slipping through the cracks."


	6. Unexpected Help

There were voices murmuring somewhere above him, but he didn't recognize them, although one seemed vaguely familiar. Steve moved restlessly, trying to fight his way through the cotton-wool surrounding him and the voices, and moaned as pain stabbed through his leg.

"He's awake." One of the voices moved closer, and hands gently held him still as he twisted in an attempt to escape the hurt. "Take it easy, Mr. Brewer. We're going to help you, but you have to stay quiet."

That made no sense. Why did he have to lie quietly; who was going to help him; and why were they calling him Brewer? He was disoriented enough as it was; frustrated, he fought to open his eyes, reaching up to rub them, and started as metal smacked him in the nose. He opened his eyes to determine the cause, and outrage and fear brought him awake with a vengeance.

"What the hell --?"

The woman had turned away, but she swung around immediately. "Mr. Brewer, you've been quite ill. Apparently neither you nor Lieutenant Sloan had any idea how to deal with the wound in your leg properly. You're lucky I was a nurse before I married Grant."

Steve stared at her. "I don't understand," he managed to say, although somewhat thickly, his tongue not quite in working order.

She contemplated him briefly, frowning, then reached to check his pulse. "I'm Emily Ryan. You're temporarily our guest until we can reach the authorities to come get you, or until you are well enough for Grant to take you to town. Now, if you'll just relax and try to rest, you'll get better faster."

She sounded rational; now if Steve could only figure out why what she was saying sounded wrong. Slowly, not sure if he was talking to a lunatic, he asked, not particularly originally, "Where are we?"

Mrs. Ryan made a noise of disapproval. "Mr. Brewer, I told you to rest quietly. For your information, essentially we're in the middle of nowhere. My husband and I own this spread out here for a reason -- no one else lives within miles. Now, do I have to repeat myself?"

He started automatically to shake his head no, then stopped as he remembered what else was worrying him. "I'm not Brewer."

"Of course you are," she said soothingly, as if to a child.

Steve started to struggle to rise, an effort which was doomed even if she hadn't put those strong hands firmly on his chest and pushed him back down. He tried again anyway. "Mrs. Ryan -- I don't understand why, but you're mistaking me for someone else. My name is Steve Sloan; Luke Brewer's a convict I'm taking to San Francisco to testify in an important criminal proceeding."

Hazel eyes regarded him coolly, then pointedly glanced at his wrists. "And why would a police lieutenant be in the habit of wearing handcuffs?"

Nausea threatened again as he glanced involuntarily at his hands, but he shoved it back, temporarily distracted by the bandages underneath the cuffs. He didn't remember them chafing -- with an effort, he lifted his fascinated gaze back to the woman. "The plane exploded," he explained simply, as if that were all he needed to make her understand.

Emily Ryan sighed, and sat in a nearby chair. Her patient obviously wasn't going to settle back down until he had told his story. "And what happened then?" she asked mildly.

Steve's brow furrowed as he tried to remember clearly the events of the last several unpleasant hours and describe them coherently. "I hit hard, passed out. When I came to, he had my gun." Pleased by his success in retrieving the important information, he gave her a triumphant look.

She returned it levelly, at length, until he started to squirm, feeling like a schoolboy caught at some prank. He obviously believed what he was telling her, but all good liars wrapped their stories either around their own convictions or a germ of truth. Even so, he had sowed a seed of doubt; but there was one particularly unlikely claim to be examined.

"So why wouldn't he have just left you?" she inquired.

He stared at her, nonplussed. "You don't believe me, do you."

Emily made a noncommittal gesture. "I don't know yet. Convince me."

Bewilderment was rapidly giving way to irritation, with rage not far behind. "I saved that little s.o.b.'s life, and this is the thanks I get from him," Steve growled. Bandaged fingers clenched, then relaxed with an effort, and he sighed. "My name is Steve Sloan. I'm a lieutenant in the Los Angeles police department. My picture ID's in my wallet, along with my driver's license."

She swallowed; he wasn't going to like this. "You didn't have any ID on you, not even a wallet."

With difficulty, he held onto his temper; this confusion wasn't her fault. "My father is Dr. Mark Sloan, chief of staff at Community General Hospital in L.A. Call him, he'll tell you what I look like." Controlling his emotions, and the discussion itself, had tired him; he turned his head away and closed his eyes. Maybe when he woke up, he'd be at CGH, listening to Jesse's inevitable but right now welcome scolding.

Emily Ryan bit her lip. Something definitely was wrong here, but she didn't have enough information to determine what it might be. She found herself instinctively believing the wounded, angry man in the bed, despite the tired courtesy which the other man had shown before he too collapsed from sheer exhaustion. When "Lt. Sloan" awoke, she resolved, they were going to have a small discussion about identities. She leaned down and smoothed the tumbled hair from the sleeping man's forehead, then turned and left the room, closing the door firmly.

Steve was annoyed. Actually, he was more than annoyed; he had started with mild irritation, gone through annoyance, and was working his way to an explosion of rage. He ached to put his fist into Brewer's obnoxiously innocent-looking face, but such a display would probably serve only to further prove the other man's spurious claim. He crossed his eyes and counted to ten, then took a deep breath. "Look. I'm telling you people the truth. I'm the police officer; that man there is the real Luke Brewer, and the one who should be wearing these handcuffs."

Grant and Emily Ryan exchanged dubious looks, trying to avoid the smirk on "Lt. Sloan's" face. Finally, Grant pointed out, "You don't have any ID which says so, mister. And he does have the badge."

Steve's temper was seething; he grabbed it before it bubbled to a full boil. "My police ID has my picture on it. If all he's got is a badge, that's not enough, and it won't get him into any police station in this state without the other." He saw them waver, and pursued the point. "Look. We don't have time for this. By now the authorities are going to be out looking for us, and what worries me is that his boss may be too." Brewer looked startled, and Steve thought with sudden disgust that this hadn't even occurred to the idiot; nor had it to the shocked Ryans. He seized the moment and pursued the advantage, slim though it might be.

"If his former employer comes looking for us, we're in big trouble. Those guys play hard and vicious. We're wasting valuable time right now debating which one of us is which."

One look at the sudden doubt in their faces, and Brewer knew he was in trouble. He made a last-ditch effort. "You're just trying to confuse them, Brewer. Just shut up."

"That's enough," Grant said. "The two of you could debate this into next week, and we wouldn't get any closer to the truth." He gave Steve a narrow stare. "Any way you can back up your claim?"

Yeah, my ID, Steve thought resentfully, but he didn't pursue the point. "Call Jim Newman in L.A. He's my captain. I'll give you the number."

Brewer started to object, then his shoulders sagged as Ryan transferred the stare to him. Once they talked to the police, he was as good as caught. His hand started to inch toward the gun in his pocket, and Emily moved faster than he would have thought possible. One minute, her hands were empty, and the next, there was a shotgun in them, pointing steadily in his direction.

"Mr. Brewer," Grant Ryan said mildly, "I suggest you take the gun out very slowly and put it on the table. My wife is an excellent shot, and, at this range --"

"I get the picture," Brewer grumbled, but he obeyed, and collapsed into a nearby chair. "Now what?"

There was a pause, then the exasperated Steve growled, "First these things." He contented himself with glaring at Brewer as the other man sheepishly retrieved Steve's keys and handed them to Grant, who, with a muttered apology, made quick work of removing the damnable restraints. He started towards the shrinking convict with them, but stopped as Steve shook his head. "Don't bother. He's safer with me, and he knows it."

Maybe so, Brewer thought, now experiencing much the same resentment Steve had earlier, but how are you gonna prove it when Dixon's animals show up? He said as much, and Steve's brows slammed down.

"I ought to simply toss you out the door to them, you ungrateful --"

Emily intervened before the regrettable turn of phrase slipped out. "Mr. -- excuse me, Lt. Sloan, what should we do?"

He considered, frowning. None of the available options were particularly attractive, but he didn't want to tell them that. "I think I should start with a phone call."

Grant shook his head. "Don't have a phone."

Of all the -- Steve bit back possible responses, remembering the way Emily Ryan had described their property. They were obviously living this way because they chose to do so. But no phone was definitely bad. "I don't suppose you're a ham radio aficionado."

Grant looked startled. "Yes, I am. Gotta have some way of communicating with the outside world."

Suppressing his annoyance, Steve gave him the necessary information for contacting LAPD, painfully aware that the time lapse could cost them a high price. "And, Ryan - please make sure you talk to Jim Newman -- only to him, or we could end up dead." The questioning look on Brewer's face added to his irritation. "Brewer, you jerk. It wasn't just the weather; Mattingly was having trouble with one engine, one he checked before we took off. Don't you remember him mentioning it?"

Brewer shook his head, mute with panic. Steve sighed. "I had hoped he was mistaken, and that my suspicion of a leak to Dixon in the department was as well, but I wouldn't want to bet my life on it." He shoved back the covers and began the arduous and dishearteningly difficult process of getting out of bed, shocked at his own weakness. Feet finally on the floor, he looked up at Emily, who had moved hastily to help him. "Mrs. Ryan, depending on what news Grant gets from my captain, we may need to get out of here fast. Do you have --" Her expression was less than encouraging, and he stumbled to a stop, waiting numbly for the next piece of bad news.

"I'm sorry," Emily said quietly. "Grant's been working on the truck, and it would probably start, but I wouldn't want to risk your lives on it getting you anywhere very quickly."

Brewer had been staring dejectedly at the floor; his head jerked up at this disclosure. "What about the tractor your husband brought us in on?"

Her eyes were sympathetic. "Mr. Brewer, it's over forty miles to the nearest town, and the fastest that tractor can go is maybe twenty-five miles an hour."

Brewer's eyes widened, and he swung around towards Steve. "Sloan, you promised," he said wildly. "You promised you'd make sure nothing happened to me."

"I wasn't expecting you to pull a lamebrained stunt like trying to pass yourself off as a police officer," Steve snarled. "You cost us valuable time, and --"

"Lt. Sloan," Emily interrupted, "you're being a little unjust. You weren't exactly coherent when you arrived."

He reddened. "Maybe so," he said grudgingly, "but if Brewer had been straight with you, wouldn't you have notified someone?" She looked puzzled, and the effort of trying to figure out why made his head hurt. Cautiously, he commenced the task of getting out of bed once more, consigning the last exchange to the recesses of his mind as pointless. "If we don't have viable transportation, we're going to have to come up with something else. Do you have any more guns?"

She nodded, and he breathed a noiseless sigh of relief. "Good. I want you to get all of them, give 'em to me. Then I want you and your husband to get on that tractor and make tracks out of here. If you meet anyone, you've never seen us."

Appalled, Brewer burst out, "Are you insane? You think we can hold off Dixon's thugs by ourselves?"

"It may not come to that," Steve replied with a calm he didn't feel. "If we're lucky, the good guys will get here first --"

Brewer's tone was ugly. "You still think they're looking for us -- and have any clue where we might be?"

It was getting more difficult to maintain the false serenity, especially when he really wanted to slap Brewer upside the head. Hard. Steve fixed the other man with a cold blue stare until Brewer looked away. "Yes, I do. But I'm not going to endanger innocent people, so the Ryans are going to leave." He started to stand, only to sag back downward as dizziness rode through him.

Emily caught him before he had completed his descent and steadied him. "Don't be ridiculous. We're not abandoning you to those people, despite Mr. Brewer's obvious error in judgment, especially if they're as terrible as you say. And right now I suspect my aim is likely to be much more accurate than yours."

He objected, but she overrode his feeble protests easily. "I'm not going to debate this with you, Lieutenant. And I should point out that this is my home."

Steve resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to convince her otherwise. "All right," he said finally. "Here's what I need you to do."


	7. Batten Down the Hatches!

Pausing for a moment to catch his breath and surreptitiously rest his leg, Steve surveyed the results of their combined labor thus far with a certain degree of satisfaction. The Ryans had produced enough firepower to supply a small arsenal, increasing his suspicion that they harbored survivalist tendencies. Right now, though, he didn't really care what private manias they indulged, as long as the four of them survived the next few hours. For he was fairly sure that any showdown which might occur was not far off; rationally, it was impossible to believe that neither Feds nor foes would find their way to the farmhouse fairly soon. He glanced over at Brewer, who, once he had gotten the initial grumbling out of his system, was actually performing quite capably, unpacking ammo and stacking it where it was easily to hand. The Ryans had proceeded to literally batten down the hatches, limiting access to the house to only one entrance and two windows, one on each side of the house. How they had blocked the rest, Steve had no idea, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Perversely, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, almost as if they had been waiting for such an opportunity. With difficulty, Steve tore his fascinated gaze away from Emily, who was assembling yet another piece of weaponry, which he suspected might not even be legal, with ease and efficiency.

The radio crackled suddenly, and he jumped in spite of himself. A disembodied voice called out tinnily, "Anson Niner One, this is Road Warrior, come in, over." It repeated its message as the four glanced at each other; then Steve said painfully, "Let me guess. You have no idea who that is."

Grant shook his head. "That's not who I talked to. Your captain called himself Alfred E."

Steve started to choke with laughter, but suppressed it at the puzzled looks from the others. He didn't want to explain it; but he was definitely going to rag Newman about it when he got back. If he got back, he amended, then caught himself. When he got back.

The voice continued to page Anson Niner One. Finally, Steve said resignedly, "You may as well answer it, Grant. I'm pretty sure I know who it is. But you don't; try to convince him of that."

Dubiously, Grant picked up the mike. "Anson Niner One. I hear you, Road Warrior. Over."

"Anson Niner One, I'm looking for two men, one a policeman. One's probably hurt, will be limping. Have you seen anyone like that recently?"

"Road Warrior, negative. Sorry. Should I look out for them? Over." Grant grimaced at Steve, who nodded encouragingly and mouthed, "You're doing fine."

"Anson Niner One, I'd be obliged if you'd give me a hail if they show up in your area. Over."

"No problem, Road Warrior. Over and out." Grant put the mike down quickly, as if it had suddenly grown fangs. Steve grinned at him, then quickly held a finger to his lips as Brewer started to speak. Behind them, the radio crackled once more.

"Appreciate it, Anson Niner One. Over and out."

"Sorry," Brewer mumbled. "I didn't realize --"

"It doesn't matter," Steve interrupted, his voice grim. "If that wasn't Newman, it was Dixon's man or as good as. The police would know to stay off the airwaves. They know we're here." He pushed himself upright, holding onto the wall until the lightheadedness passed. "Come on. We've still got work to do; Grant, need any help with the rest of those little boobytraps?"

The other man shook his head. "Got as many of those in place as is going to work before they lose the element of surprise, Sloan. After that, we're going to have to depend on bullets and luck."

Luck was to prove elusive. Time stretched, collapsed and expanded again for the watchers waiting in the farmhouse, nerves taut with anticipation. After an indeterminate period, which Brewer later described as painfully brief and Steve as interminably long, their straining ears picked up the sounds. "Helicopters," Steve muttered in disgust. "Just what we need."

Grant moved over to peer out of the available window without allowing himself to be seen, confirming Steve's suspicion that the Ryans were not exactly ordinary farmers. "Two of them that I can see, but I'm pretty sure we've got at least one swinging around the back of the property from the sound of them."

Steve started to speak, and broke off to stare at Brewer, who had suddenly collapsed in a heap, head in his hands, moaning. "What the hell's the matter with you now?"

"We're going to die," Brewer said miserably. "They're going to kill us all. And it's all my fault."

Emily turned from her vantage point at the other window. "Why is that, Mr. Brewer?"

"I should never have agreed to testify," the convict gabbled. "Dixon wouldn't have cared where I was, as long as I kept my mouth shut."

"Right," Steve said disgustedly. "Listen, Brewer, I'm only going to tell you this once. You were a marked man as soon as you were picked up. Actually, as soon as you went to work for Dixon. You'd have been better off as a part-time penny-ante thief." He ignored the fascinated looks on the Ryans' faces and continued, "Whether you made a deal or not made no difference. Your only chance of survival is living long enough to tell your story in court and put Dixon away where he belongs. You know that."

Brewer shook his head, his voice pitiful. "I've never even fired a gun, much less tried to shoot anyone with it. What the hell use am I going to be?"

Steve sighed. Of all the people he could have chosen to have to give a pep talk to, Brewer was pretty low on the list. But his options were limited. "Listen to me, Luke. You may not have much choice; if necessary, I want to you to point that gun in the right direction and pull the trigger, and keep pulling it. That may make the difference between somebody living and somebody dying, including you, d'you understand?"

Brewer looked dubious. "Maybe I should just go out there and tell them I'll go back to work for Dixon --"

"That's crazy, and you know it. You'll just be dead sooner," Steve said harshly. The other man's eyes fell, and his shoulders sagged. Not the best material for standing up for himself, Steve thought with sudden sympathy, but doing the best he could in an impossible situation. "Look. I'll do my best to keep you out of harm's way, all right? And we should have more visitors soon anyway."

"What do you mean?" Grant asked curiously.

Steve checked the rounds in his revolver, its familiar grip reassuring. "I would imagine the police picked up that exchange, so they'll know we've got company."

"We certainly do," Emily said. "Two choppers out this way, unloading men with dark glasses and big guns."

Newman's headset buzzed at him, and he responded. "What? When? Where are they?" He signed off and turned to Mark, who was observing him with some trepidation. "They just picked up a radio exchange between the Ryans and someone called Road Warrior who was looking for our boys. Sounds like Dixon's closing in." He leaned forward and spoke briefly with the pilot, then got back on the police band and gave more instructions. "Twenty minutes, half hour tops, we should be there."

Mark nodded, unable to trust himself to speak, and prayed they would be in time.


	8. Besieged

If he had been asked later to describe the events of the next several minutes in more or less chronological order, Steve would have been hard put to be particularly precise. There was a weird interval after Emily spotted the additional helicopters when it seemed like the ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound, and even that seemed to hesitate, then elongate as time slowed down to a crawl. From his position by the door, he could see the men approaching, not especially cautiously, obviously confident that they were dealing with an ineffectual group of people. His mouth twisted in a wry grin as he realized they were about to be very surprised.

He wasn't disappointed. The point man hit the first of Grant's little goodies, a simple animal trap hidden under what looked like seemingly harmless dirt and straw. The metal closed on his leg with an audible crunch, and the victim howled with pain, collapsing on the ground, gun and purpose forgotten. One of the other invaders rushed up to him, although somewhat more carefully, and knelt to assess the damage. The others stopped, taking the time to survey their immediate areas, and -- obviously talking to each other.

"Damn," Steve said quietly. "They're miked."

Grant Ryan shrugged. "That limits our options a little, but really doesn't change things much. We did figure they would be."

"Mmmm." Steve squinted out again, and chuckled softly. "At least they're approaching much more slowly now." He glanced over at Ryan and asked curiously, "How many of those did you plant?"

Grant grinned. "Enough. The fun part is now they'll be looking for those, and not necessarily something else."

Steve's puzzled query was interrupted by yet another yell from outside. Yet another "guest" had been concentrating so hard on spying out possible dirt/straw combinations that he missed the innocuously small piece of rope which somehow still managed to wind itself around his foot and yank him up to dangle from the branches of a nearby tree. His demands to be let down went largely ignored by his companions, now intent on winning through to the farmhouse without further disaster. They were at a disadvantage in any event, as there was not much in the way of natural cover in case of any shooting match. Steve watched them come, thinking the same thing, waiting for the right moment.

It came sooner than he expected. There was a sound of breaking glass as bullets sped through the back window. "I'm all right!" Emily called softly, as she stuck the end of her favorite rifle through one of the holes and started pumping. From the sounds outside, her claim of accuracy was totally justified.

The sounds of gunfire in the rear prompted the frontal attackers to similar action. Bullets flew, for the most part uselessly, thanks to Grant's earlier activities, and he and Steve returned fire relentlessly, while Brewer scooted back and forth, ducking the occasional pellet whining through the air, making sure they all had enough ammunition. He was making an admirable attempt to stay calm, but Steve could see the strain in the other man's eyes, and found himself hoping fervently that Brewer would be able to keep it together until help came. How soon that might be, he didn't know, but he was ready for it to arrive any time.

How long this state of affairs continued, he was never quite able to say. It came to an abrupt head at a sudden exclamation from Emily, followed by crashing glass, and yet another cry, this time with a distinct element of fear. Time stopped altogether, and the startled inhabitants of the farmhouse turned and stared in her direction.

She stood frozen, hands uselessly grabbing at the arm around her throat, the muzzle of a revolver (Glock, Steve noticed with a feeling of remoteness) pressed to her face, the attacker's arm and hands the only visible part of him. A voice crawled out from behind her.

"You by the door. Put the gun down and move away from it. Slowly." There was a pause, while Steve complied, then the voice spoke again. "Tall drink of water by the window. You too."

Steve sucked in a breath at the sudden realization that the invader couldn't see Brewer where he huddled, white-knuckled hands clutching the shotgun with which he had been entrusted. Please, he entreated silently, Luke, keep your cool, don't make a sound, don't let him know you're there. Carefully, he edged away from where he had placed the Glock, hands lifted so the stranger could see them, and Grant followed suit. They waited tensely while he spoke into his headset. "I've got them. Entry's secured." He motioned with his elbow toward the table, the movement scraping the gun muzzle across Emily's neck, and she grimaced slightly, but stood her ground. "Both of you. Sit there, hands face up on the table."

The two men started to move, still wordlessly. In his corner, still unnoticed, Brewer cautiously lifted the gun, and hesitated; from that angle, he had no clear shot. He sent a panicky look towards Steve, who shook his head infinitesimally, and subsided reluctantly. I don't want to wait too long, Sloan, he thought; the rest of them will be coming in, and then what am I going to do? Somehow, Steve must have picked up on his mental plea; he turned his head and slowly let one eyelid droop. Oddly reassured, Brewer relaxed, convinced Sloan would give him some sort of signal, and settled to wait.

Steve was about to sit when the invader spoke into his headset again. "Yeah, Brewer and the cop. Got them both here."

What? This moron didn't know who was who. Steve seized at the opportunity, and grabbed what little acting skill he had. "Look, mister, please, tell Mr. Dixon I won't talk, just let me go, okay?"

The newcomer's voice was thick with scorn. "Figures you'd fall apart, Brewer. Go sit down with your friend the cop before I put a hole in you just for the hell of it."

Steve's hands were shaking, a rather nice touch, he thought. "Please. I promise. I don't want to die. Don't kill me." To the side, he heard a very faint snick as Brewer readied the gun, and babbled for another minute or so to cover the sound, hoping the man holding Emily hostage hadn't absorbed the fact that he had moved closer to them.

The arm around her throat tightened visibly as the gun moved slightly away from her neck to point at Steve. "I mean it, you yellow coward. Sit down now, or I'll drop you right there."

Steve paused, as if hesitating, in reality measuring the distance between them. Just enough, with the element of surprise, and if Brewer came through. He fixed a look on Emily, making sure she was paying attention to him, and saw with satisfaction that she was indeed as she gave him a wink of her own. He swallowed, starting to turn, as if to retreat, and, in the faint second that the gun pointed at neither one of them before its owner returned it to Emily's neck, whipped around with a hoarse yell, diving for the invader's legs as Emily drove her elbow hard into the man's stomach and pulled away in the other direction. "Now, Luke!" Steve roared, seconds before his body crashed into the other, a burning sensation screaming across his shoulder and back as the Glock discharged virtually past his ear. Head ringing from the near-shock, he was vaguely aware of the louder boom of the shotgun; then a heavy weight fell on him, and he lost track of things momentarily.

Grant made a dive for his rifle and took up his position by the door. Emily glanced at the shaken Brewer and took pity on him. "Luke, please help Lt. Sloan. I'll take the back." She grabbed her rifle and started pumping it as Brewer hastily moved to free Steve from the dead man's body, hoping the blood puddling around them belonged to the latter.

"Give me my gun." It was faint, but unmistakably Steve's voice. With Brewer's help, he sat up, trying to ignore the pain, new and old, and wrapped his good left hand around its familiar weight. The other man was shaking, and he paused in checking the chamber. "Brewer."

No response. He tried again. "Luke."

This time, it registered; Brewer turned and gave him an opaque look, eyes wide and blank. Steve knew there was absolutely nothing he could tell him except for one thing. "Thank you for saving my life."

Hunched shoulders lifted for a moment, then returned to their previous position. "I guess I should say you're welcome." A pause while he tried to produce enough saliva to push words through his arid throat. "I never shot anyone before." Another pause, then the bewildered eyes slid involuntarily in the direction of the body. "Is he -- dead?"

Steve nodded, keeping one eye on the door. "If it's any comfort, you wouldn't have been able to stop him if you hadn't killed him."

Brewer shuddered and turned away, unwilling to talk anymore. Steve let him be, only too familiar with the feeling; and there were other, more immediate, concerns to be dealt with, most importantly, staying alive. He turned to check Emily's position, and the resulting pangs reminded him of the gunshot wound. He could still move his right arm, though, so he settled for dealing with that later and returned his attention to more crucial matters. "Luke, please help me up. I need to back up Emily."

Silently, Brewer complied, then returned to his previous assignment, still without a word. Steve stuck the nose of the Glock out of the window and fired, taking out an attacker who had somehow managed to dodge both boobytraps and Emily's bullets. He grinned at her, then aimed and fired again, with identical results; but the man's immediate replacement was disheartening. How many guys were out there, anyway? he wondered desperately, and where the hell were the Feds?

As if by deliberate anticlimax, his thought was answered by the whirring of helicopter blades, a veritable army by the sound of them. He peeked cautiously through the broken glass, and let out a whistle of glee at the sight. Six immense military-issue whirlybirds had set down, men in SWAT uniforms pouring out of them. The remaining invaders were rounded up in short order, and the noises from the front of the house indicated similar activity. Gratefully, aware that his strength was on the wane, he staggered over to one of the chairs and collapsed on it to wait for the good guys, letting the world around him fade out.

His father was talking to him. No, he thought blurrily, Dad was in L.A., not in this place which looked like it belonged in a Peckinpah movie. But someone was touching the gunshot wound carefully, and speaking in low tones with Emily Ryan, and with someone who sounded very much like Captain Newman. That made more sense, Steve mused, he was just imagining he had heard his father's voice.

Then his father spoke again. "Son, I am so sorry. If I had had any idea --"

What was he talking about? Reluctantly, Steve opened his eyes, to indeed see Mark hovering over him. "Dad?" The intensity of the relief which washed over his father's face was bewildering, and he was too tired to try to interpret it. "Dad, I'm okay. Just a crease, took me out of time for a minute."

Mark's hand gripped the good shoulder tightly. "And what looks like a substantial hole in your leg," he said, as lightly as he was able.

Steve managed a small grin. "It'll give Jess something to do." He peered up at his father's face, which still looked whiter than usual. "Dad -- are you all right?"

Mark smiled down at his son, amazingly still more or less in one piece despite the fearful events of the last two days. "I am now, son," he said thickly. "I really thought we'd lost you this time --"

Steve shook his head. "Can't get rid of me that easily, Dad." He surprised a sudden suspicious glint in his father's eyes, and reached awkwardly for his father's hand. "I'm sorry for what I said to you. I promise you I will never stop asking you to spend time with me."

Mark's throat closed, and he swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I don't want you ever to stop, son. And I promise you I will make sure we have that time together."

Captain Newman glanced over from where he stood talking to the Ryans after ensuring that the still shaken Brewer was being assisted to walk out of the house. He still wasn't quite sure what had happened to precipitate Steve's unusual action in volunteering for the assignment, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had just been resolved.


	9. Epilogue

Steve sat in a San Francisco courtroom a few weeks later, watching Luke Brewer testify. The trial of Mervyn Dixon had been postponed to allow the accountant the opportunity to recover from their ordeal, and Steve himself had just finished giving testimony concerning their adventure. Now he listened, hoping Brewer would still have the courage and stamina to finish what they had started out to do not quite a month before.

Brewer managed to stumble through. Although he couldn't hide his nervousness, he nevertheless was able to speak credibly, and the scorn and dislike emanating from the defendant's table was clear even to the jury. His testimony was decisive; the jury listened to the defense's presentation and the closing arguments, went off to deliberate, and returned in less than an hour with a guilty verdict on all counts. Mervyn Dixon was going to go to prison for a very long time.

Steve limped out of the courtroom, leaning on the cane which was still necessary, although Jesse had estimated he should be able to dispense with it fairly soon. He had said as much after scolding Steve for not taking care of the wound properly. "There are some important muscles and ligaments there, you know, Steve. You can't just bash around in there and expect everything to heal like it did when you were twenty." Steve had pretended to smack his best friend, but had to agree with him; in prior years, he would have been off the cane by now.

Brewer was standing by the wall with his police escort, waiting to be transferred back to Los Angeles. He glanced up as Steve approached. "Well, Sloan?"

Steve drew to a stop. "You did it, Brewer. Dixon's going down for just about the rest of his life."

Brewer shrugged slightly. "Did I really have that much of a choice, with you dragging me through the Diablos?"

Steve grinned at him. "As far as I remember, it was mostly you dragging me." He sobered. "I think I was a little out of it at the time, so if I didn't say it then, I'll say it now. Thanks." Brewer ducked his head, embarrassed, and Steve continued. "There's something else."

"What?" Brewer was watching him warily, unsure where the conversation was going.

"I intend to talk to the DA about getting the rest of your sentence reduced," Steve said quietly. He observed the other man's astonishment with some pleasure, and stuck out his good hand. "I mean it, Brewer. You stepped up and did what was right when you had to, not because you made a deal, but because it was the right thing to do. I'm alive today because of it, and I'm going to see that you get to reap the reward."

Wonderingly, Brewer took the proffered hand and shook it in his turn. "Thank you," he managed, his tongue suddenly unwilling to cooperate. Steve slapped him on the back and limped off to join his father, leaving an amazed soon-to-be ex-con standing staring after him.

Mark took his son's arm unobtrusively as Steve arrived. "Are you sure about him?" he asked.

Steve nodded. "Yeah. He's just an average guy who found himself playing way out of his league. And, with the right encouragement, he can now take the training he learned there and actually make a decent living legally. He deserves a chance."

"So do we all, son," his father said slowly, still not totally sure Steve was aware of their exchange a few weeks before. He hadn't mentioned it since then, and had been in and out of the hospital for most of that time, so an opportunity to discuss it had not exactly arisen.

Steve slanted a look in Mark's direction. The sly old coot, he thought with a mental grin. He doesn't know if I remember. He debated whether to needle his father further, then relented. He had already been lectured by Jesse and Amanda, and had no desire to incur their wrath if he let the older man wallow in anxious ignorance any longer. "I know, Dad." He threw his arm around his father's shoulder, less for support than for kinship. "There won't ever be a last time."


End file.
